


atrocity exhibition.

by teethrotter



Series: i'm wide awake, it's morning. [1]
Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Compliant, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash, Self-Harm, Vomiting, matsuda is Ruined and ide frets relentlessly, there are mentions of other characters but literally only names so i won't tag them, through excessive alcohol use but it is not treated directly as such
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-05-26 07:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14996093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teethrotter/pseuds/teethrotter
Summary: Following the conclusion of the Kira case, Matsuda's seemingly endless faith in humanity is irreparably decimated. He has never coped worse with anything in his life.





	atrocity exhibition.

**Author's Note:**

> brief warning for animal neglect, but it is not at all intentional on matsuda's end, nor is it focused on. the dog is ultimately well and good. she's usually very spoiled.

The living room reeked inexcusably of piss, alcohol, and vomit. Matsuda was at least able to discern that much from his position on the floor, entirely sprawled and with his cheek pressed to the rug. The piss was not his own, not yet, but he had no way of knowing such, his breath rattling as he shallowly and shortly inhaled. His mind was muddled, coherent thoughts few and far between, but he was well aware of at least one thing: he hadn't wished to wake up again.

Far too inebriated to clearly focus on such things, Matsuda merely remained still, feeling quite as if he had been rammed by an oncoming train. Wishful thinking, really. The truth of the matter was that he had blacked out covered in his own vomit ( both recent and coagulated from days past ) and his floors were likely permanently stained with the same substance. There could hardly be anything more pathetic than that.

He was unable to recollect the most recent three days of his drunken fit. Quite ironically, the cause and first few hours before the morning he began his pathetic attempt to drink himself to death persisted in vivid detail. Of course the very source and height of his unspeakable misery would live despite his attempts at self-medication; what else could he have possibly anticipated, given his streak of luck? He simply couldn't be bothered to deter the current self-pitying nature of his thoughts, jumbled and confused as they were, giving a soft wheeze as he decided that the light breaching his drawn curtains was abnormally strong. He was well overdue for a nasty hangover, but he remained piss drunk even now, making for a thoroughly beaten and exhausted body. The weak notion that he could potentially be close to physically giving out was appallingly soothing. As he should have choked to death on his own vomit that first night, he considered it inexcusably late.

The handful of hours following the conclusion of the incident in the Yellow Box Warehouse had passed in agonized shock. Matsuda had inexplicably found himself back to his apartment around dinnertime, mechanically moving to provide his small Shiba Inu puppy ( Fuku, short for Daifuku ) with clean water and a replenished food bowl. He could next recall his own screams, blindly reaching for any possession he could get his hands on to accordingly smash on the floor. Entirely unaware of whatever he may be destroying, he sobbed profusely, cursing any and all deities, worldly atrocities, and misfortunes he could conjure before his mind's eye. He damned himself and all the rest of them for being so very _misguided_ , for turning a predominantly blind eye to Light's inhumanity, for simply not being _clever enough_ to see what L and Near had apparently seen from the start. Most of all, he damned himself for his own _stupidity_ , never once even humoring the possibility that Kira could potentially be among what would serve as near flawless camouflage. Rose-tinted glasses were the most dangerous thing of all throughout the Kira case, and yet he had virtually contented himself with knowingly living behind them. The notion made him sick.

He hadn't calmed until the grand majority of his easily accessible belongings lay splintered on the floor, his chest heaving and his body trembling with overexertion, his throat scraped raw and his face sticky with drooping tears. At least one noise complaint had likely been filed against him. Finding that he was unable to currently bring himself to care about such trivial matters, he sank to the floor in an exhausted stupor. His once raging adrenaline levels had been thoroughly decimated, leaving only the hollow shell of stinging numbness; Light was Kira. He would soon be buried next to a father who was only able to die once he had assuaged himself of the impossible lie that his son was not something that he indubitably was. There was nothing else to say. 

Matsuda's anguish soon faded to sympathy, as it always did. Presumably having frightened Fuku into hiding with his noise, he remained on the floor that night, too spent to even consider rising. He sobbed brokenly for the sake of himself, for both the living and dead members of the task force, for Sayu and Sachiko, for Eriko and her children, for all of those affected in any palpable way by Light's unspeakable deeds. Most of all, he cried for Light, who hadn't had a standing chance past the age of 17, who stayed ceaselessly true to his ideals, who he idolized, who he had filled with bullets. There was no sufficient number of tears that he would ever be able to shed to properly express his sorrow and grief.

The subsequent three days passed in an incorrigible haze. He could vaguely remember digging through his cabinets, snatching and consequently downing any available liquor, and then an overpowering sense of fear. Something about chugging water and waking up with vomit plastered all over the floor, as well as his clothes. He could decipher no chronological order to these snapshots of former events, but it would certainly be reasonable that they had occurred repeatedly in a sort of cycle. Drink, perhaps commit a number of drunken obscenities within the walls of his apartment, grow deeply afraid of impending alcohol poisoning as survival instincts kicked in, chug water in a pathetic attempt to thwart the inevitable, black out and puke while unconscious. Simple and concise.

Such things were unclear to Matsuda. Basic _thinking_ seemed impossible, much less a task as complicated as placing chronological puzzle pieces to events that he was uncertain even happened. Despite his pitiful attempts to save himself, he had unarguably fallen victim to alcohol poisoning. The sole thing to do was wait. Whether he was waiting for a heart attack, to choke to death on his own vomit in his sleep, or simply to stop breathing remained unclear; whichever arrived first had no choice but to be accepted with open arms. He had been well aware of this when the first bottle touched his lips, going so far as to _long_ for it. There was nothing to be afraid of. 

There was an obscure, imperceptible knowledge that, at this stage, death was imminent, but said knowledge was almost _otherworldly_ , not at all an aspect of his palpable life. How could it be? Anything to enter his brain was forced to do so through a near impenetrable fog, seconded by the fact that he was very much safe at home. There was nothing _real_ about it.

Matsuda remained on the floor for what was either seconds or years, dipping continuously in and out of consciousness. He would hear himself inhale, slow and shallow and rattling, only to drift in a sort of enigmatic haze until the next ( or perhaps one hours later ) came. This haze was disorienting and distressing, but Matsuda simply did not possess any amount of energy left to care, allowing himself to be yanked along on its iniquitous whims like some sort of limp doll. Time was no longer real, and yet he was regulated to its mercy, waiting and waiting and waiting. The waiting would cease upon the complete surrender of his exhausted body. Simple and concise.

Needless to say, he was left absolutely unaware of the hesitant jiggling of the doorknob to the entry of his apartment. The waiting would be unpleasantly disturbed.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic serves as a sort of beginning companion to yotsu8a's 'Out of Control' !! please take the time to check it out. i can't recommend his work enough :)
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/14985209
> 
> http://eiichitakahashi.tumblr.com/


End file.
